How Steven got his groove back.
Apparently the chances are good. Barflies get tired of the
same filler material. They keep their eyes open, waiting for the first “Say,
you’re not from around here” guy to walk in the club. Well, maybe not the
first. It takes a while for their own liquid relaxants to kick in.
New guy + barfly. It’s a potent combination. Two men with low/no
expectations. One night. Maybe just one hour. It’s practically anonymous. Go in
with a new name, the one you wish your parents had given you. Remember when “Dick”
was acceptable? Try it on if you can say it with a straight face. If not, there
are other studly names. Dirk. Gunnar. Just not Rolfe. (He turned out bad in “The
Sound of Music”.)
Go wild. What happens
in Vegas and all that. So what if your holiday is in Acapulco. Or
Cleveland. Conjure up your own Vegas state of mind.
And, yes, I could stand to have a Vegas moment. I’m in New
York City and there are so many attractive men. Men with a fashion sense. Men
who clearly seem to be gay. Especially when I’m spending all my time in art
galleries and in line for Broadway shows. Of course, the boys of Broadway march
two by two. I wind up eavesdropping on two old Jewish women in front of me as
they kvetch about all the stars of “Glee”. (They catch me nodding as one of
them says Jonathan Groff and Darren Criss make a cuter couple than Kurt and
Blaine.)
On my third night in Manhattan, I should be going to a gay
bar. Perhaps even a bathhouse if I don’t feel like margaritas. But I get bored
looking up gay bars on Yelp. I dash out with the clear intention of picking Steve.
I cruise the aisles of Whole Foods on 7th Avenue until I spot him: a
pint of Steve’s Mexican Chili Chocolate ice cream, the perfect way to end the
night after a Broadway show. Yes, that’s the kind of Steve from Brooklyn that
truly whets my appetite. I'm thinking I'd love another go at Steve. He’s my sure thing.
On my final day, I decide to walk through Greenwich Village
and to check out the Stonewall Inn. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets seem
quiet. I don’t get any sense of a Bohemian culture. Neither do I get a sense
that this is a gay area. The Stonewall Inn appears to be a teeny establishment,
a big surprise since everything in Manhattan seems so big. I had told myself I’d
pop in for a beer but I see no one coming or going and, frankly, I have no
desire for any kind of alcohol. I move on, stopping for a moment to gaze at a
subpar all-white sculpture to commemorate the Stonewall Riots. The historical
milestone deserves better.
If I’m going to stumble on a fling or at least a moment of
flirtation, I figure my best chances are just off Christopher Street. I stroll
into Big Gay Ice Cream.
Yes, this is my kind of cruising bar.
But, alas, the stereotypes must be true. Gays don’t do ice
cream. Not in broad daylight, at least. There are twenty people in the shop.
All families and straight couples. I no longer feel inspired to order the Bea Arthur. The camp factor would be fruitless. I settle on the Pumpkin Gobbler
instead. I get it to-go.
Two days in a row of self-soothing with ice cream. I’m
definitely staying in tonight. And I’ll be doing penance when I get back home—longer
jogs, harder swims, heavier weights. It’s not the kind of penance I’d hoped
for.
2 comments:
The West Village ain't what it used to be. Try Chelsea. 8th Ave from 14th through the 20s. Hope you had fun. Great post
Thanks for reading, GDT. I did a quick walk through some of Chelsea along 9th Avenue as I wanted to try Blossom, a vegan restaurant. Really didn't get a sense of the area. I shall find a reason to go back!
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